


Shall I?

by hawkins437



Series: Dragon's Teeth [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkwardness, Comedy, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dress Up, Gen, Horns, Kossith, Orlais, Qunari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkins437/pseuds/hawkins437
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kossith Inquisitor S'raaka Adaar finds herself in an awkward situation when she is asked to take part in a masquerade ball in Val Royeaux. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I?

**Author's Note:**

> The story was written prior to the realease of Dragon Age: Inquisition, therefore the characteristics of individual characters may not fit their actual in-game personalities (this is true of Solas in particular).

S’raaka Adaar did not look good in a dress. It could also be said that she looked ridiculous and certainly out of place.

The crinoline skirt of the dress made her hips look wider than usual and with her silvery skin, horns and pale hair she stood out of the swirling, chattering crowd like a mountain on the verge of a valley.

So much for a masquerade—no mask, however elaborate could conceal the dramatic difference of figure and race. She was an outsider among the pompous nobles, upstart felons and wealthy merchant princes.

Speaking of merchant princes, the dwarf at the Inquisitor’s side coughed as if to alert his company to an incoming gush of speech—and speak he did: “Truly your beauty stands out among the lessers, Horny.”

“One more word and I’ll teach you the truths of pain, dwarf.”

“Charmed.” he chuckled, grabbing the first glass of spirits that came within his reach.

S’raaka looked around—this was no place for a Kossith, not to mention a Kossith that dabbled in the dark arts. It was a matter of survival and she shied no means of power if it were used justly—to an end of this war. Demons came creeping from the slightest shadows deprived of sacrament of light—it made little difference to the Inquisitor if her magic drew more in. She would slay them with the very weapon they have created.

Even her dress was out of place—bought on the flea market in Montsimmard the day before, once property of an elderly Orlesian lady, already worn; shoes, too small in size, that have already been danced in. It shone with turquoise of the Rivaini seas, trimmed with cheap golden lace of decaying, broken threads. Neckline lined with fur, skirt wide enough to obstruct any narrower door or gate and a pearl-white silk corset so tight it had to be laced only partway to allow the Inquisitor space to breathe.

S’raaka grimly realised that she was the mummery of this banquet, her ill-fitting owl mask making her no less of a clown.

“You should dance.” insisted the Seeker emerging from the company of the masked Harlequins—clearly assassins. For what purpose they were present the Inquisitor dared not guess. “It is more fun when you dance.”

S’raaka spared no glance for Leliana, nor did she return an elaborate response. “No.” she said plainly.

For once Varric agreed, “A dancing dwarf makes for a good farce. But I’d rather trample my dignity by shouting drunken obscenities, Singsong.”

At last Leliana stood defeated, and determined to find a different partner to join the whirl of the ballroom with while S’raaka and Varric lingered glumly among the refreshment tables, the dwarf watching from afar Solas talking words of freedom and emancipation into the ear of an elven servant holding a tray of choice cheeses. The servant seemed less than thrilled by the lecture, all the while desperately seeking the nearest chance to escape the rhetoric tortures of the apostate, and finally found the loophole to exploit when one of the guests mistook the mage for a cupbearer and inquired for more wine, instantly the servant took away, disappearing in the mingling rows of guests.

Varric gave a satisfied cackle S’raaka’s eyes examined a shady man garbed in clothes of simple fabric—a dark blue doublet matched with grey trousers and tall leather boots, looking as out of place as the Inquisitor herself. He noticed the Kossith’s gaze and made his way towards her, hoping to find company more favourable than the sour pretence of the Orlesian manners.

His mask was that of a griffon and his voice was rough and seasoned like the callus on his hands, pointed like the goatee adorning his chin.

“Lady Inquisitor.”

 _I am no lady,_ S’raaka might have said but the man gave her no time to voice her thoughts.

“I am Nathaniel Howe, an acting commander of the Grey in Ferelden.” he introduced himself, making a polite bow S’raaka was sure did not match the Orlesian etiquette and was she glad for that.

“Shall I?” he asked, extending his hand in an offer of a dance.

Intrigued by his title more than his looks, the Inquisitor consented, vanishing with the Warden amidst the merrying crowds.

**Author's Note:**

> It is possible I may continue this story in the future, after the game has come if there is inspiration and interest.


End file.
